Page 53 of Turn That River Red

Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll gather up the strength to ask him tomorrow.

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak. I can feel him staring at me through the dark even though I can’t really see him, his face a blur of shadows.

“Good night,” I manage to whisper.

“Good night, Mercy.”

I love it when he says my name. It makes my whole body light up like Christmas.

He reaches over and smoothes his hand over my hair, his touch gentle even as it reminds me of how hard he pulled on it earlier, like he was trying to drag me up to meet him. The space between my legs flares with heat.

“Good night,” he says again, and then his hand falls away, and then he’s gone.

For a minute, I stand there, listening to his footsteps retreat into the darkness. They’re faint, and I have to strain to hear them, to let myself know this wasn’t all a dream.

It wasn’t a dream. But whatever it was—it’s over.

At least for now, I tell myself, and then I hear Ambrose’s smoky voice:

See you tomorrow.

I let myself into my tiny yard but don’t go back into the house just yet. I want to stay out in the damp night air, the dew settling on my skin. Part of me wonders if I’m tempting the killer. Maybe if I can draw him out, Ambrose will appear to save me.

I pace around my tiny garden, my thoughts racing. I don’t want to go back inside. I don’t want to go back to my bedroom and strip out of my dress and fall asleep in my little twin bed.

What I want, truly, is to walk out of here and all the way to Ambrose’s cabin. I want to kneel in front of him and beg him to take me far, far away from the Church of the Well. Away from the murders. Away from Reverend Gunner. Away from all of it.

I barely realize what I’m doing until I’m walking swiftly along the sidewalk beside my house, arms crossed over my chest, heading straight to Ambrose’s cabin.

Walking alone is terrifying. I can barely see in front of me, and the darkness amplifies the night sounds, turning every insect rattle and frog croak into a killer’s footsteps. I’m halfway to his cabin when my speed-walking becomes a jog, my breasts bouncing uncomfortably without their bra. I keep my gaze focused ahead, working on kid logic—if I don’t see the killer, then the killer can’t see me.

It doesn’t work, of course.

“Who’s there?”

I freeze when I hear the voice, just around the corner fromAmbrose’s cabin. A flashlight sweeps across the road and shines in my eyes, blinding me like a deer. I’m too terrified to move.

“Mercy? What are you doing out here?”

And then, like that, I know who it is.

“Deacon Price?” I squint into the light and wrap my arms tighter around my chest. My voice sounds quick and panicky, and I know I need to come up with an excuse for being out at night. And fast.

“You can’t be out here.” Deacon Price moves the flashlight out of my eyes and steps up to me, frowning. “It’s not remotely safe. There’s akiller.”

“I kn-know,” I stammer out. “But I—Reverend Gunner wanted to see me, and?—”

“And he sent you home alone?”

Deacon Price knows I’m lying. I can hear it in his voice, the chiding, vaguely patronizing tone.

But what other excuse do I have? I can’t tell him the truth.

“Yes.” I try to add an air of authority to my voice.

“So why are you here?” Deacon Price says. “You would have passed your cabin five minutes ago.”

My heart pounds furiously in my ears. He’s right. I messed up. “I—I must have gotten turned around?—”

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